


Fire on the Red Line

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fisting, Angst, Boston, CBD Oil as Lube, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Marijuana, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhappy Ending, Unsafe Sex, Vodka Enema, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You think you know about fucking? You only know half the equation you dumb motherfucker. I’m gonna teach you how to getfucked, Gamzee Makara, and you’re going to like it.”Gamrezi Blackrom, Berklee/Lesley AU





	Fire on the Red Line

**Author's Note:**

> lads, the locality jumped out. if you don't live in boston, i'm sorry. if you do live in boston, i'm also sorry. 
> 
> this fic includes some unsafe/unsanitary sex (do NOT expect to get a fist in on the first try!!!!), but all of it is consensual, if slightly crossfaded. 
> 
> i initially started this for kinktober and then never really did anything else for the challenge but it was kind of...freeing? anyways. here you go. once again -- and i cannot stress this enough -- i'm sorry.

 

 

 

> _It's been a long hard twenty-year summer vacation_
> 
> _All these twenty years trying to fill the void_

               Mitski, “Crack Baby”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Gamzee texted you to come “party,” you assumed he had been using that as a loose euphemism, at best. But coming in the door of his garden-level shithole, you suppose there is a party of some kind happening here. You haven’t really been “partying” yourself tonight, but the bodies of the other kids blend and smear in the smoke that has gathered in the apartment like a stormcloud. They recede into couches, chainsmoking marlboros and arguing about local white rappers. You hear the word “underground” and have to laugh. They say “successful” like you would say “plea deal.”

No one greets you as you slide into the kitchen, but a skinny girl in gold lame seems to levitate a blunt within inches of your face. You can’t help the competitive convulsion she sets off in you, with her big hoop earrings and the endless textured waves of her thick, black hair. Her perfume is real, and so is the hair in her extensions. You can’t compete with that, stick-skinny and “attractive” as a cup full of razor blades, but you can unsettle it. You can refuse to laugh at her jokes and smile meanly when she looks at you. Be fuck ugly and still get laid, even if your lay is fuck ugly, too.

You puff on the blunt like it’s the last chance you’ll ever get, trying to waste as much of her good weed as you can, unembarrassed when you start to cough.

You’re a drink deep by the time Gamzee shambles in and takes you by the hand to his room. 

You’re buzzed enough that making out sounds like a good idea but not loose enough that you’re ready to try anything serious. And even though he’s not what you would call “good with boundaries” (a distinction requiring, probably, that he at least know what those are), he’s fine with that. He hauls you up onto his lap on his unmade bed and starts macking with whatever is closest to his face. 

His obsession with your bony body disturbs you sometimes and turns you on others. He wants you and it’s better than not being wanted. Then again, _he_ wants you, the lopsided frankenstein of all your stupid teenage crushes. The boy in high school who stood you up halfway through a date. The stoner girl in your freshman dorm who thought it didn’t count as cheating if you were both high and both girls.

He squints like he can barely see, but it’s enough to catch your attention wavering. A long-fingered hand leaves your hip and starts to pluck at your lips, trying to get inside.

“Terecita, come on, we didn’t come in here not to fuck, did we? Huh? You gonna leave a guy hangin?”

He’s so ugly it seems willful. The thought of him inside you makes you sick.

He shoves two fingers in your mouth. It takes a breath for him to realize that you’ve bitten them but he doesn’t yelp or tug.

“Got somethin’ to say?”

You grind a knuckle between your molars. “Yyh hnn nhw hht uhow hngng.”

Gamzee pulls you in close by the backs of your front teeth and his sour, ashy breath fills your mouth. It waters in response. “What was that, baby girl?”

You push against his nails with your tongue, ejecting the fingers with a slippery squelch.

“You don’t know shit about fucking.”

“How do you figure that, Terecita, seeing as this little pity party is up into the double digits now? Wouldn’ta thought you were the type to let a guy stick it in nine more times if the first didn’t pass muster.”

It comes out casual, but his wet hand says that’s unlikely. He kneads at your jaw like clay, jazz-piano fingers big enough to cover your whole face if he wanted. And he might.

“You dumb motherfucker,” you say, through teeth he’s practically holding shut, “that’s only half the equation.”

“You and your high philosophy, girl, anybody ever told you--”

“Take your pants off.”

“--you’re a crazy bitch?”

“If you wanna fuck sometimes you have to be the one getting the fucking.”

His hand stops cold, still but not letting go. A wheezy sound builds until it’s enveloping both of you. Laughter.

“Crazy bitch.”

You bend his hand back in yours and shove _your_ fingers into _his_ mouth. “I’m not going to offer twice. I’m going to teach you how to get _fucked_ , Gamzee Makara, and you’re going to like it. Or I’m going to leave.”

He makes a plaintive sound that could be disbelief or capitulation. You don’t wait around to find out which, but go to the bathroom. The smell of mildew clings to the peeling walls and floor, tile too expensive for an art student hole like this. The towels hang on the rusted, leaning rack like the discarded skins of animals, limp and smelling. You brush the backs of your fingers along them and lean in for a sniff to determine which of them is cleanest. The tap water runs frigid for nearly a minute before getting lukewarm. “Hot” in this case is just a euphemism. Figures. You’re lucky the pipes aren’t frozen.

Gamzee raps on the door of the bathroom and says something you can’t quite hear over the sound of the running water. He seems to think you give a shit.

“--f this is your idea of fucking, Tee, gotta say--”

You interrupt him, shoving the wet rag in his face at the same time that you notice his dick bobbing around between his naked legs. “Shut up. Clean up.”

He lifts a plastic bottle of bottom shelf vodka up to his mouth and you yank it away before he can take a drink, replacing it with the rag.

“I’m not fucking a dirty ass.”

“Pretty fucking picky tonight, sure you don’t want me to loosen you up?” Long, tricky fingers come to hook directly over the waist of your embarrassingly low-riding jeans and start to worm their way down.

Your palm cracks across his face and the sound is pure meat-on-meat. “Like I can’t see you twitching every time I tell you to shut your fucking mouth. Wipe. Your. Ass.”

Gamzee grumbles but his hard-on hasn’t wavered. If anything, it’s standing up straighter than a second ago, looking just a little redder. This isn’t part of the foreplay for you, but a precaution, and maybe foreplay for him, if it’s humiliating enough. You two agree about that, the humiliation, it’s why you started fucking in the first place and why you’ve let him come in you more than once. Lots of people get off on shame, it’s a heavy burden being such a genius. Maybe you like feeling taken down a peg. _So sue me_. Ha-ha.

The longer you have to wait for Gamzee, the more inert you become, sinking into the creaky architecture of his bed further and further with every passing second. Thoughts move through your head like loops of rope. You must have your balance wrong – too much downer, not enough up. But when’s the last time you took an upper? You can’t remember. These days alcohol doesn’t even feel like a depressant anymore. Your life has never been as chemically rich as It is now.

It’s right about the time you think you’re about to descend into a totally unsexy and fitful sleep that Gamzee finally comes out of the bathroom, nasty towel still in hand. He clambers onto the bed on legs that already look like they’re beginning to shake, which is a dead giveaway that he’s either had too much adderall or that he’s too turned on to think straight. You can’t help a tooth-bearing grimace. Nasty little shit. But it feels good to have something on him. You hadn’t expected this to have such an effect on him, had really just expected this to be another entry into your catalogue of shitty aborted sexual encounters. Maybe even gotten him to lay off you for good, if both of you were lucky. A particularly memorable ploy to get him to be the one who chickened out first, at worst. But now it’s starting to look like it might be much worse than that.

Gamzee shuffles over on his knees, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously and straddling your own outstretched legs.

“Don’t tell me you’re givin’ up me, huh? Pregame get the better of you?”

You roll your neck around on your shoulders, looking up at the ceiling as Gamzee does his best impression of a Sexy Girl, wiggling his skinny ass over your hips and placing his long hands on your shoulders. “I never pregame,” you shoot back at him.

“False, Terecita. Your entire life is a pregame. You don’t do anything but sit at home and wait for your so-called ‘friends’ to forget for a second in their own totally self-centered haze that they cannot stand the goddamned sight of you.”

Nasty, ugly, _mean_ little shit.

“You seem to have forgotten you’re not my fucking friend.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about me, babe. I’m talking about your codependent NPD bestie that couldn’t be bothered to visit you in the hospital after your very brief and violent affair with the 66 via Allston. I’m talking about that little deejay shithead we both know you’d saw your left tit off just to mack on at a party even if you had to be high out of your fucking gourd to do it.”

You’ve never regretted speaking to anyone more in your life than right now. You’ve never wanted to stick your whole fist in anyone so bad.

Gamzee gives another nauseating wiggle and makes a disgusting mewling sound.

“They’re not my fucking friends, either.” You’re losing. Bad.

“And my heart, Tee? My shitty shriveled little heart just _aches_ for you.”

“Get off my lap.”

“Is that ‘Uncle’? You’re just a bouquet of broken promises tonight. I may never trust you again.”

“God, do you ever shut up.”

“‘Fraid not, sister,” he says while his thumbs press maliciously into your collarbones. But he does get off of you, thank Christ. If he hadn’t you’re sure it would have been 30 more seconds before you earned a murder in the first degree conviction. It would be impossible to consider it anything but premeditated.

“On your knees. Face down.”

“So tender,” Gamzee mutters as he follows your instructions.

In moments like these you like to play dumb with yourself, entertain the idea that other people talk this way to each other in bed. Entertain the idea that this is anything other than a very bad idea.

“Mmmmmmm,” Gamzee hums saccharine sweet and oh so false as he reaches back and spreads his asscheeks apart. “Give it to me, Terecita. Give it to me real good.”

Not terribly appealing on the surface, aesthetically, but he’s obviously given himself a decent cleaning. You lean down to have an experimental sniff. Low-tech, of course but what option do you have? You’re not squeamish, but neither are you excited about having fingers that smell like literal shit for the next three days.

“ _Ugh,_ what the fuck.”

It’s-- unpleasant, to say the least.

“You need a douche.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones with a stink so bad they make me cry.”

“I make you cry? Fuck, that’s hot.”

You hop off the bed, already scouring the room for the vodka. The idea comes to you so fast that you’re already reaching by the time you can consider it. You weigh it out in the crossfade, inspecting the vodka bottle for what feels like an interminable time but is actually probably just seconds. You could hurt him. But would that be so bad? Could he blame you? Being that you have ingested some “mind-altering substances.”

Plausible deniability is all you have, but it’s as much as you need. If it goes haywire will you feel bad? That would be an adventure.

You plop back on the bed behind Gamzee, still wriggling his asshole in the open air like it means anything at all to you, and try not to think too hard about how many steps are involved in this.

“You have lube?”

“CBD oil,” he says, jerking his head towards his nightstand.

“Your ass’s funeral.”

Gamzee huffs and you can see an eye through the mess of his curly black hair and it looks strangely alert. It reminds you how much his dopey pothead act is just that. An act. Gamzee is much more than a sharp-tongued freak with snaggleteeth. You know from his own mouth he’s got a juvenile record somewhere and a family history to make even your old CPS caseworker blush. Sometimes when he’s fucking you, you think about what words might be sealed inside. _Assault. Battery. Intimidation. Mayhem._ You came once thinking about the fist wrapped around your shoulder breaking someone’s jaw.

You feel small and vulnerable, suddenly, even behind him. But no, you don’t have time for this. Before you can think too much about it, you take the vodka bottle and bring it to your lips and pull. You hold it it in your mouth and move as fast as possible, feeling every millimeter of tissue burning, begging you to swallow. You press your lips to Gamzee’s bared hole and spit with as much force as possible.

Gamzee _squeals_. “TEEEE! What the FUCK!”

You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth and bring the bottle to your lips again. Palate cleanser.

Your voice is harsh and scratchy when you reply. “Told you I wouldn’t fuck a dirty ass.”

“My fucking _god_ that stings! Shit, sister, didn’t think you were really a sadist.”

Your mouth feels raw. The thin, clear liquid dribbles from Gamzee’s asshole, slightly cloudy where it gathers. And even though you know distantly that that was mean and that you should feel bad, you’re also glad you did it.

You shush him and reach for the jar of oil on the rickety nightstand with one hand while you dab the towel messily with the other.

“Still sting?” You ask, gathering the congealed yellowish oil on two fingertips.

Gamzee whines into the pillow. You also know the burn he’s feeling intimately, having used your pussy to get drunk once, just out of curiosity. Then again, just for fun.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go digging for gold down there so often.” You’ve seen him scratch his ass, you know some of the skin must be thin and tender.

“Touche, Terecita. You know how to break a man of his bad habits.”

You want to slap his ass so bad but don’t have the free hand to do so. “Negative punishment.” Instead you reach out and slather the oil on his hole, enjoying the warble he makes in response. “And positive reinforcement.”

He hums and you can see the tendons on the back of his knees shaking.

“Better?”

He doesn’t answer, but wiggles a little. You move your slick fingers in a circle around the puckered skin, noting with interest how it twitches with every pass. He wants this more than you’d thought. Maybe he’d even been waiting for you to suggest it.

“I asked you a question, Makara.”

Gamzee laughs, strained and gravelly. “Yes, _Mistress_.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

You press the tip of one finger into the center of his hole and he instantly sucks you in to the first joint but you don’t let him take any more than that. “Good.”

Even though there’s so little of you inside him, he’s already sucking and pulsing around you, trying to pull in more than you’re willing to give him just yet. You don’t intend to rush this and have it cut short. You have an _idea_ and don’t want to give him any reasons to prevent you from pursuing it. Sex with Gamzee is almost always like this, similar to how you imagine a court case to be. Rounds of argument back and forth, a challenge to present your case in a way that makes it undeniable. You want to arrive at a natural conclusion, to force him to see your side. To fuck you in someone else’s bed (successful), to finger you on the T (unsuccessful), to let you suck his dick out back of the bar you got thrown out of for flirting in too violently (successful). And you know your track record is good, but you’re not going to cut corners out of arrogance. That is always a recipe for failure.

You move that finger out a centimeter and then back in, going slow enough to tease but fast enough to get him used to the idea of something moving in him. This is the tricky part. The opening salvo is past and more than one round of questioning is already over. He’s already tipped his hand a little by letting you see that he’s enjoying himself. Now that you know this isn’t purely for your benefit you’re free to see how far that enjoyment can go. This, you think as you let him suck your finger in to the second joint -- still slowly, still putting up a little resistance -- is the cross-examination.

Gamzee makes another sound, moves his hips like he can’t decide if he wants to get closer or further, and you’re surprised to find how much you like that. A familiar pinpoint heat settles in your cunt, a pulling feeling that means you’re getting wet and kickstarts a chemical loop in your brain. Not quite dopamine, but the anticipation of it, that wanting feeling that tells you this isn’t just physical contact, but sexual contact. And that, _hmm_ , that’s interesting.

You let the muscles of your forearm relax and Gamzee pulls you in further, further, until your finger is entirely engulfed. God, he’s hot. Physically, that is. He’s _burning_ around you, hot as an open flame.

“Hm,” you say, purely as bait.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Gamzee grumbles. “Don’t start with that shit. I can hear you thinking mean shit back there.”

“I was just thinking you’re taking it like a real pro.”

“Maybe I am a pro. Maybe I do know all I need to about getting fucked, huh?”

“You think this is getting fucked? I’m not fucking you yet. You only think this is fucking because every time you go to the clinic you ask the nurse to take your temperature rectally.”

“Can’t fault a man for getting his fuckin’ rocks off where he can.”

“I’m not your one and only? I’m so hurt.”

“No you’re not,” he says, pausing to gasp as you pull the finger out and let it suck you right back in. Goddamn, he’s not putting up any resistance at all. You wonder if maybe he has done this before. “You moan when you’re hurt.”

You move your finger in a circle, pressing into the edge of his hole, testing the tightness there, stretching him open so gently you should really be eligible for an award of some sort given what he’s just said to you. “And you cum prematurely.”

“Well you know what they say, ‘Not here for a long time…’”

“Wow,” you say, lubing up your fingers again and pressing two to Gamzee’s entrance, “where’d you get that? Pinterest?”

Gamzee snorts. “You sick or something, Tee? That was tepid, even for you. I know I blew your mind the other night but it’d be a waste if I blew it to pieces.”

“You didn’t even fuck me then.”

“Your throat looked pretty fucked to me.”

He had fucked you, kind of, stuffing as much of his dick down your throat as he could. You’d coughed up his cum for almost 20 minutes after. _A little creampie for later_ , he’d said, _all doggie, no bag._

Fuck him, you think. He wants a comeback? Fine. The two fingers you’d been pressing insistently around the edge of his hole now press a little more than insistently, the chipped polish of your nails disappearing from view as you make him take them in.

Gamzee makes a strangled sound like someone is pressing on his throat and then groans long and low as he swallows your fingers up all the way to root.

“Getting looser.”

“Getting--” Gamzee makes another choking sound, a little gasp as you wiggle the tips of your fingers inside of him, searching for something, “getting fucking _high_.”

“I got you that good, huh?”

“Nng, no, don’t-- don’t flatter yourself. It’s the--”

Right, the CBD. The jar doesn’t exactly look medical grade. It’s more than possible that it’s a bit stronger than what a normal person would order online. And Gamzee’s not a normal person.

“Well does it feel good?”

“It feels--” he makes another noise as you take the two fingers inside of him and crook them.

“What was that?”

“It feels like something.” The way he says it, long and low and pushed out on an exhale, makes you want to see what he means.

You’ve had high sex before -- are a little bit high yourself right now, actually -- and it always makes everything feel, just, _more_ somehow. Like you can feel all of the muscles of yourself releasing and contracting in slow motion. Does taking it in through genital mucous membranes intensify that? It’s certainly something you haven’t tried before. Gamzee cries out again and you file the thought away for the next time he’s got you in the position you currently have him in.

You concentrate on what you’re seeing and feeling, directing your attention as equally to your own pussy as you to do the twitching heat of Gamzee’s ass. You think hard about how your fingers feel inside of him until you can almost close the loop, almost trick yourself into thinking you’re somehow fingering yourself using him -- as intermediary, as audience.

The sounds are similar, sticky and thick in the stuffy air of his bedroom. You move your hand to maximize them, to bring to the surface how sloppy and fucking slutty he sounds for you right now. It’s intoxicating how well he takes you, how used to you he’s getting. You pump him with your fingers in time to the music outside until there’s nothing else to do but ask him if he wants another and then give it to him fast as he can take when he whimpers in response.

It’s with no small amount of self-loathing satisfaction that you note: with three fingers in him and his back arched like a parenthetical remark, he looks prettier than you ever have in your life. It’s that long hair, you think, that strangely tapered waist, the strange hiccupping noises he’s started to make as he sinks further and further into the feeling. You’ve been there before, mentally, and part of you is almost jealous that he’s the one getting all of the attention. But then you remember it’s you who’s giving it to him, all at once with a headrush to rival coming down from a kegstand.

All those earlier thoughts about how dangerous he might be, given the right circumstances, they roll up nice and neat with the power that rushes through you as he takes what amounts to more than half your hands-width of fingers. And isn’t that an idea? One hell of a closing argument.

You pull your fingers out and slather oil on all four of them, trying to cram them together as you press them into Gamzee’s hole. You’ve always known the human body is an amazing instrument but you don’t think you fully understand it until you watch Gamzee Makara -- jazz piano wunderkind, idiot kid with a juvenile record as long as “Blue in Green” -- take four whole fingers in his ass right up to where you have your thumb folded, tucked into your palm.

“Gamzee,” you say, too consumed with what you’re doing to take notice of the fact that you’ve just said his first name during sex.

He whines and shakes his head on the pillow. “W-what, Tee? Gonna say you love me?”

“Was gonna say I think you can give up music school. Think you got alternate career prospects.”

He groans as you pull your hand back and presses onto you, taking your fingers back in until he’s really pressing up against your thumb. You flick it out, rubbing the tip of the digit against his rim. You make tiny circles there and keep your fingers still. Not pressing, just suggesting.

Gamzee grunts as you rub him, still straining back, but you don’t give him any more quite yet.

“What is it?”

“More.”

“More lube?”

“Jesus shitting Christ, Tee.”

You use your free hand to scoop more oil from the jar and rub it around Gamzee’s hole, pushing and pulling where you can to test how tight he is and tease him into a whimpering fit. He all but dissolves into a keening whine when you turn your hand at the wrist, pulling your thumb-tip in a semi-circle around his puckered rim.

“Moooooore,” he says again in a tortured groan.

“You sure? That’s all five fingers. Big commitment.”

“Shut up,” he says, almost breathless, “shut up, shut up, shut up and _fuck_ me like you mean it. Don’t talk a big-- a big fucking game if-- if--” you twist your hand back down and Gamzee makes a sound that says _agony_ to your ears and _ecstasy_ to the twitching tip of your clit.

“Okay.”

You pull your fingers back and extend your thumb out into the cradle made by the bottommost joints of your fingers. They look disgusting, but you’re almost past caring. The sooner you get them back inside him the sooner you don’t have to look at them. So that’s exactly what you do, slipping the tips of the first four inside and then pressing on when your thumb bumps up against Gamzee’s entrance. He groans continuously as you press, but you press on anyways, right until the bottom joint of your thumb is at his entrance. The knuckles of your first-through-pinkie fingers are already inside him. The sight leaves you a little breathless. You hadn’t even realized how far you were until, well.

Gamzee is breathing like he’s just run a marathon, making little sounds that might be moans or sobs, depending on the angle. It almost makes you feel tenderly for him.

But you don’t.

Because at the end of the day he hates you. And that is simple and _good_. He hates you and he hurts you and you hurt him back because you are just two lonely fucking worms crawling on your bellies through a city that doesn’t belong to you. Your talents will get you nothing. The world is fucking and no one can hear you scream.

And if that’s true, this is a hell of an exit plan.

So you press that little bit further until there is a sensation of sudden tension and then sudden release. And all at once, your hand is inside him. Not all, but most. Enough.

You shift your thumb side to side across the roots of your fingers and Gamzee moans as the joint rubs him on the inside. It’s probably the same steady, rolling pressure as a wooden massager. Persistent. Hard in that way only bone can be. You know fisting doesn’t actually involve curling your hand into a fist , but you wish you could just to get him stuck, helpless at the end of your hand like a goddamned puppet.

Considering the limitations, you do the next best thing, using every ounce of strength in your fingers to open them millimeter by millimeter, like a flower. Like a medieval torture device you happen to know about. The pear of agony. Classic. You’re a bitch who knows how to have a hobby.

But it’s impossible to even consider getting lost in the thought with how hard Gamzee is squeezing you and how pitiful he sounds where his face is shoved into the pillow. He’s whimpering and blubbering, not a single coherent word salvageable from the wreck (except what might have been _Mommy_ but you’re not about to stop and consider that). He breathes like he’s in the middle of a beating and his ass feels like it can’t decide if it wants you all the way up in his throat or is trying just to shit you back out.

It’s the grossest and hottest thing you’ve felt in the last year, maybe ever. Because even if you can’t make a fist inside him, he’s still just as helpless at the end of the spear of your fingers. For all his bluster and his cruelty, he’s just--

Something crashes. The door jerks, a hand on the other side (a hand? Or just a body?) touching the handle to make it shift a little and gleam in the low light. You think you might throw up. You think your heart might have just stopped.

Neither of you breathe, Gamzee squeezing so hard on you that you don’t think you could get out even if you wanted to. Hours could pass by in the time that you wait there, equally at the mercy of one another and whatever asshole is on the other end of the door.

You think of the girl from the kitchen, how high and mighty you’d felt for a second puffing on her weed and thinking of how you already had the night in the bag. _Well,_ you must ask yourself, _what about now?_

The way your gut sours in response takes all the wonder from two minutes ago and sucks it away like the winter air sucking the warmth of your room out the cracked window.

So when the moment finally passes and the door _stays_ shut, you don’t waste any time, pulling and pushing against Gamzee without quite drawing your hand out, just stretching him over you. It’s measured, almost clinical, and brutal in that way. You don’t stop at the end of a stroke for him, but push him immediately in the other direction. You read some paper in art history once that said that the body is a thinking organ as much as the brain, and if that’s true you’ve got Gamzee as scrambled as one of those old posters proclaiming _This Is Your Brain On Drugs!_ He’s totally incapable of being silent now, shouting and moaning and probably sobbing fat salt tears and drool all over his unwashed pillowcase. More than pulsing, he’s practically convulsing around you, trying to meet you thrust for thrust but incapable of finding the beat, always seeming to suck you in harder at that very last second like he wants more, _needs_ more.

And when you look down you can see that he does. His cock is fully rigid, barely even bobbing, the head pressed against his stomach above where his hip bones jut like chicken bones from a vacuum-sealed bag. Pearly precum makes the pallid skin shine where he’s unconsciously rubbing it into himself, and all down his dick until it beads on his ballsack and drips off, onto the sheets. You’ve never made him so-- _wet_ before.

With a particularly sharp press forward, Gamzee lets out a strangled sound, like you’ve just grabbed his nuts and twisted, then immediately begs you -- near tears -- to do it again. You hadn’t intended to find his prostate but, well, might as well make the most of the situation. You do it again and carefully watch his dick as you do, not expecting anything, just curious. You know if you touch it he’ll come almost instantly, just judging by how incredibly worked up he seems to be. And sure enough, when you reach forward and jab at that spot with your four fingers, Gamzee’s cock twitches visibly in far more than interest.

A nasty smile curls its way up your face.

“You getting close? You really gonna come for me that easy?”

He whimpers and moans like he’s been kicked in the ribs. You wonder if it sounds all that much different as he nods, frizzy black curls flopping all around his head. You reach forward as far as you’re able and take those curls in a small, greedy fist. You yank on Gamzee’s head harder than is necessary, certainly, but just the right amount to set your own blood on fire.

“Look at you, first time getting fucked and you take it like a fucking champion, Makara. Gonna come without me even touching your dick, you big fucking baby. Greedy fucking slut--”

And right as the word leaves your mouth there’s another sound -- much gentler than last time -- and the sudden presence of other voices, two of them, muttering with all the casual familiarity of best friends or siblings.

This time it’s you who slows down instead of time, your head feeling like it takes _ages_ to turn to the door and see -- horror of fucking horrors. There is Dave Strider, coolkid wannabe DJ and sometimes dealer, your casual-tenuous friend and the only real crush you’ve ever kindled in your entire pathetic life, taking in the scene before him. Namely Gamzee taking in _you_ , all five fingers of, and shooting hot stinking ropes of cum all over himself and his bed. _God_ , you would think if you were capable of thought after such a cataclysmic nuclear fuckup, _this is what they do to people for whom execution is too kind_. They make you watch as the one person in the world possibly capable of liking you sees you wrist fucking deep in your mutual acquaintance Most Likely to Have Crabs.

Your will to live seeps from you so violently it is a physical reality more than a feeling. You want to say _shit_ or _fuck_ or at least _um_ , but you don’t even have time to try.

“Oh, shit,” Strider says, with a funny little pause between the words, like he’s prone to doing. “This isn’t the coke room.”

The girl peeking over his shoulder -- his girlfriend or his twin or whatever the fuck -- gives a dry, low laugh and grabs his shoulder, already turning him away. “No, it’s definitely not. Let’s try the other one.”

You try to gather up the shattered pieces of your mind, suddenly feeling as slow as it should have felt the whole time, weighed down by the drugs and the drinks you had before you came. On the end of your arm, Gamzee half-collapses liquidly, pulling your hand down with him. He’s still pulling on you a little in spurts, not quite like you after you come, but close enough that it’s the best analog. He starts to pull away and push against you, forcing your hand out with a grunt and what seems like relatively little effort.

“Nnnnngg, god, when you make a promise, Tee, you motherfucking deliver.”

If the world were kinder, you would hear the words like they were echoing far away instead of feeling them and their mouth-wet texture practically in your ear. Gamzee’s voice is hoarse and disgustingly intimate in the once-again closed room. He might as well be whispering your ear. Ugh.

“So large and in charge, Terecita. Did you plan all that out? Throw it all to the wind just for one amazing night? No more dedicated fuck than a chick with a martyr complex, huh?”

There he goes, sliding off your fist and turning around to twist the knife.

“If I could see your face I’d slap it,” you say, the last coherent thought you have before finally, blessedly, everything seems to drift away.

You’ve done it countless times before, when the stress becomes too much. Let yourself float up a little, two inches above your head and four inches back. Not a pilot anymore, just a passenger.

And with that distance it gets easier. You slip off the bed as Gamzee offers some witty, fucked-out repartee -- _“Make sure you use the dirty hand, yeah, babe?”_ \-- and pad your way to the bathroom. Your earlier assessment had been correct. Your hand is very dirty. Covered in cloudy oil and other fecal spots here and there. Well. There’s only so much a hasty vodka enema can do, huh? You turn the water on and wash and wash and wash until it feels like you’ve been at the sink a week and the water is actually hot. One last shitty miracle to round out the night. Haha. Shitty. But no, a real miracle would be a bus coming right on time in three minutes, as fast as you can walk out of the apartment without forgetting anything essential.

But what is essential, really? A coat you guess, your shoes and phone, your CharlieCard. No, that you could probably leave if you had to. You can sneak in on someone’s swipe if you have to. Your hand is red from the scrubbing. You bring it to your face and sniff experimentally. Jesus. Jesus fucking christ. If everything else weren’t enough to bowl you over, that smell almost is. It occurs to you that it will linger for a while. You’re not sure how you’ll get it out. A regular fucking Lady Macbeth.

Gamzee makes a pass as you pass back through the room. “Just gonna hit and quit it, huh?”

“I’m going home,” your mouth manages to say a hundred miles from your brain. Or not your brain, but yourself. The distinction is not comforting.

“I see, keeping it spicy. That’s my Terecita. Real motherfucking romantic.”

“Please,” you say as you palm open the door with the damnable hand. “Just shut up for once, just fucking shut up.”

Gamzee says something else as you leave, but it gets swallowed up in the pounding noise of the party that’s still happening in the common area of the apartment, that has been happening without the two of you the entire time despite this being Gamzee’s home. Not a host and not even a guest, and you’re the same by association. Still an outcast in a world ruled by art freaks and high school castoffs. Now there’s an accomplishment to put on your law school application. _Highly focnot again used, capable of turning away from beneficial social interaction for the purpose of wanton self-destruction_. You’ll be a perfect fit at Harvard someday you hope, so long as no one is there to remember your undergrad interview which you bombed with aplomb.

And wow, you realize, isn’t this so fucking rich. Your eyes are stinging. Are those _tears?_ _Seriously?_ Fucking pathetic, absolutely fucking pathetic. You got what you came for, can’t that at least be enough? So what if Strider saw? That ship sank before it ever even made the open water. You’re not his type. You’re not anybody’s fucking type, except for Gamzee. Gamzee who hates you just like you deserve. See? _Res judicata_. There’s nothing left to be said, nothing to be made whole.

You wipe at your face as you pass by the partygoers, hating yourself for the reflexive way you look for him -- Dave -- in the crowd even though you know he’s holed up in Karkat’s room doing lines with people he actually gives a shit about. You intentionally shuffle off the thought that if you hadn’t been so eager to go ruin Gamzee’s night you might have ended up in there with them. No, you tell yourself, finally barrelling out the front door. No fucking way. And definitely not now. If anyone is there to witness your teary Irish goodbye, you don’t see them or hear them over the music. And honestly, it’s better this way. It’s always been better this way, with you slipping out while no one notices because no one has ever fucking noticed and never will. Except for Gamzee. And people like him. People who will spit on you and choke you and call you names and then order whatever kind of pizza they’re feeling after. Because it doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered.

All that matters is the stinging winter wind on your face and the way that your toes are already going numb in your Goodwill tennis shoes. All that matters is getting home so you can light up again and drift off to thoughts of absolutely fucking nothing. You take your phone out of your pocket as you head towards the nearest T stop, hoping something is coming soon.

There’s an unopened text that makes your heart skip a beat. But then you see the number, only five digits long, and resign yourself to whatever terrible news it is this time.

_Red Line service suspended due to a fire on the tracks. Service will be bused between Davis and Kendall. Please expect delays while buses are dispatched._

Of course. Fuck it. You’ll just walk. Even if it kills you. You try not to hope that it might.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!!! comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated, especially while i debate whether or not this should stay on anonymous. i hope you enjoyed!


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